Move On
by Ceriadara
Summary: Our pasts are something that you can’t just forget. They’ll haunt us for the rest of our life. We can’t just blank it out. But maybe, in time, we can move on once more.
1. Chapter 1

A/N Hello! Been a while, ne?

Since I'm so horrible at updatin...(ducks tomatoes and rotten fruit)...I've made a oneshot.Tad angsty, dwelling on pain filled childhoods and whatnot, but meh. It works.

So the main thing in here is that Tala is watching someone else from the Blitzkreig Boys cry. He's thinking about what happened to them and what their futures will be like because they are who they are. Very dark. Cookies to those who guess who's crying! (Correctly, that is.)

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**Move On**

_By: Ceriadara_

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We're still feared, aren't we? Still alienated from the rest of society, save a rare few – and even they don't totally trust us. No one does, besides ourselves.

We were our own life support. If one of us fell, the others took the blame upon themselves and never failed to help the fallen rise. We're closer than any relationship could get us, closer than any family could ever have. It's strange to think that something so cruel as pain can do that to people.

Beyblading – it was our lives. It still is, I suppose, but not in the literal sense like it was in the Abbey. If you couldn't blade, you were worthless. We got lucky those first few times – the times when we won against the other kids there. The times when Boris saw. Lucky, in the respect that he saw only our victories and not our defeats.

He took us to him, then, and raised us as if we were machines instead of children. Yes, better food came, and yes, we had a bed instead of a floor. Those were very small rewards for such punishment, however.

I can't even count all the times when one of us would be called out of the dormitory late at night. Depending on who called us, we all knew what it was for. If it was Boris or Voltaire or even a scientist, we were being called in for nighttime training.

If it was a guard…

Everyone knew what the guards wanted.

Truly, then, is it any fault of ours that we did what we did? Our actions were not us then, and they are still not us now, not completely. Living in fear almost since birth changes you so drastically that it seems incredible and miraculous to you when you see a child smile.

We didn't know smiles, did we?

No, all we ever knew were tears.

I know that it may sound as thought I'm just defending Bryan, but he what he did was not something that he wanted. He was raised by so many to hate. Hundreds of times every day they took him away from the dormitory. Hundreds of times a day they strapped him tightly to a table, injecting him with a thousand needles, wanting to find out what would happen.

Can you blame him?

Can you blame any of us?

I don't think so.

Many people call us emotionless. But isn't sadness an emotion? And pain. We can feel it, just the same as any other person on the street. We've felt more pain than anyone deserves to feel, much less a child.

We aren't close because we "love" each other. We aren't close because we feel like family. Haven't I already told you that? We're closer than any of that could ever possibly be. We're closer than brothers. We…I don't know. We know each other and we understand each other, more so than anyone else, even twins.

We know how they feel…we understand what it means to feel pain.

People say "Move on from the past! It's over! Forget it!". We can't. Not now, not ever. Our pasts are something that you can't just forget. They'll haunt us for the rest of our life. We can't just blank it out. But maybe, in time, we can move on once more.

Maybe. Just maybe. Or maybe only some of us will be able to take another step forward. Maybe some won't be able to leave it all behind. Like it or not, we grew up in that Abbey. It was the only semblance of a "home" that we ever had.

Yes, our childhood was filled with pain instead of pleasure. Yes, we were hurt and hit instead of cared for and loved. But it is still a childhood. Would you forget yours? Could you forget, even if you wanted to?

No.

Childhood is the time when souls are made and souls are broken. Childhood is the time when dreams are realized and fates are set within stone. Childhood is the time when fear is taught and pain is realized. It is during childhood that you become the person you are destined to be.

It's not something that's easy to forget.

The making of a person – the making or yourself – is a time that cannot be left behind. It effects every decision you make, conscious or no. You become who you are in those tender years.

Yes, we are "emotionless".

Yes, we are what some people call "evil".

But there were also times when we could think back. There were times when we cried in front of them and they held us close until we could breathe again. There will be times when the fear of that darkened place comes back, and they will be there to lift us up and bring us back into the light once more.

Many people believe that we don't deserve to be here.

Many people believe that we should rot in hell.

Many people believe that we are nothing but evil.

Many, many, many people are very wrong.

He's crying now. He doesn't think I know that he still does, does he? He acts so strong and cold, so angry...he wants to turn us and the world away, or so he thinks. But deep down, he also knows that he needs us as we need him.

He knows that we don't care what he's done. He knows that the rest of us have forgiven him for what he did. And yet…he doesn't move on. But he can. I know he can.

And I know all of this as I see him cry with his head in his hands, and I know that he knows it too.

And when he wipes away his tears, we'll help him up again like we have countless times. And then maybe, in time, we can move on once more.

Maybe.

I think we'll manage for now.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Ok, so it's not a oneshot anymore. I couldn't help myself - I love writing Kai POV. Next will be Bryan, maybe, or Spencer...but maybe I won't do Spencer. He seems rather hard to personify.

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**Move On**

_By: Ceriadara

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I learned as a very very young child that life was not a fairytale. There was no guaranteed happy ending and there was no magical being to help you when all hope was lost. There was no one to save you from a wicked stepmother – or in my case, grandfather.

I once had what I suppose could be called a happy life. My parents never had much money (my father was disowned, as I would later find out), but our small house was always smiling.

I had only gone to school a year before my grandfather came to visit. I came home from kindergarten one day, expecting a cookie and some milk before homework. What I got was my mother anxiously carrying me into their bedroom and locking the door tightly.

I asked her what was going on, who was here, why was she crying. She only shook her head, pressing her face into my hair, wiping her salty tears in my locks. She held me close, rocking back and forth. Her fear and anxiousness permeated the air around her, becoming contagious. Tears dripped down my face.

We stayed in the room for what felt like an eternity, but was only three days. We had some carrots from my bag and a half-empty water bottle, but those were soon gone. She gave me her share and ate none, no matter how much I begged her.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, someone knocked gently on the door. We both started – the house had been silent for days on end.

She called out to find who it was, and an unfamiliar voice answered. She shrunk back, trembling, grabbing onto me very tightly just as she had that first day. She told the voice to go away.

He told her he had killed my father.

I had never seen anyone as pale and defeated as my mother on that day. Her eyes died, and her breathing slowed. She stood, like a puppet, and opened the door.

I saw the bullet break through her spine, heard it snap with a sickening _crack_.

And so I met my grandfather and learned that my life was far from perfect.

Maybe that was why I somehow sympathized with his want to make me perfection. In a way, I _wanted_ perfection. Maybe then I wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe then everything would be alright.

Flawed reasoning, I'll admit.

But when you've seen your parent die, when you've heard children scream in mortal pain, when you've felt your bones being intentionally broken...even the most flawed reasoning can be seen as an escape. Anything to make it all stop.

I cried, yes, I'll admit it – I cried almost every night, hiding it when I was placed in a room with three other boys. We never knew each others names. One by one they mysteriously vanished, as did my following three roommates. And so it happened, every time...every time.

My grandfather raised me to be blading perfection. I was woken at all hours of the night, training in fire and ice and bullets and wind. During the day I met with countless tutors, teaching me languages, maths, literature. If I got any lower than an excellent, I was beaten until I sweated blood...and even then the whip thrashed down.

I was a puppet, a marionette for them to do with as they wished. I was compliant, submissive, willing to do their every whim. I kept going and going until I moved on nothing but adrenaline...and finally I collapsed.

I was in darkness. I floated there for a while, surrounded by the sensation of warmth. I never wanted to leave. Maybe I would be safe here. Maybe I could finally be free...

But the dream of eternity in the quiet dark was not to be realized.

I awoke from a four-year coma. I had gone from ten to fourteen seemingly overnight to me. The world which had been foreign enough to me before was now completely alien. I withdrew into myself, swearing to never come out again.

I suppose we all did that in a way.

I am still withdrawn. People say I'm cold and that I hate everyone and everything around me. They say that that's why I'm so distant.

People are wrong.

I'm not indomitable. I'm not perfection. I'm not immortal.

I am afraid.

I am terrified that one day I will have to go back to what I was...and what I still am inside. Inside, I am still that little boy that came home from school that fateful day. Inside, frozen into stone for all eternity, that little boy remains, locked up forever. I am that little boy. My heart is that little boy – it can never be free again.

I see my teammates laughing around me. I see a little girl fall and scrape her knee, and I watch her mother kiss it to "make it all better". I see people holding hands, families. And it slowly shatters my stone heart.

I have fallen many, many times. But always I have been lifted up again by the only four that stuck by me throughout the time we knew each other.

And now that four is three.

Ian is gone, now. He never knew the freedom that the rest of us may one day know. He now knows a different kind. He is free in his own way now. Maybe he looks after us. Maybe.

And so we all fell and we all rise up again, silently and secretly supported by those that we knew would always do so. An unspoken agreement, an unbreakable pact, a bond set in stone and guarded by silence and memories. We will always be there for each other.

And I think this as I see him cry now, and I wonder if he fully knows the extent of this pact, and the forgiveness that is extended now and forever because of it. I wonder is he will not end up like Ian somehow, someday. I see Tala go to him now, and I rise to go as well.

We will always be there for each other...

I think we'll manage for now.


End file.
